Cats do not ford rivers.*
Cats do not gas up the car.
To Grandmother’s house they do not go.
But they travel, my word do they travel.
They travel short and long distances, and the infinite yawp from “hopeless situation” to “forever home,” any which way they can.
We just get to help them.
And you — well, you, good readers and donors and humans of good will, you do more than help. You make it possible. Every day, you are here, up to your elbows…
…brushing matted old fur that’s not been loved in a long, long while.
…hand-spooning ham baby food into scared and skinny beasties.
… “spooning”…well…other organic material.
…blinking at creatures who growl or run or otherwise freak to the max.
…seeing the soul under the angry angling.
…loving, and loving, and loving the vulnerable ones who would otherwise be unseen and unknown.
You are here — physically here — through your prayers, your donations, your tender mercies. And we, the mere foot soldiers and storytellers, are just carrying out a calling that is larger than any of us.
We thank you. We thank God for you, kittens. And, pre- or post-feast, I hope you’ll fill your heart full of the travels dreams are made of. Each of the cats pictured here is gobbling up love, glorious love, in his or her forever home this Thanksgiving.
And it’s all because of you.
*They do not, in fact, do anything from Oregon Trail, including contracting dysentery or getting their oxen stolen. NO ONE STEALS SALLY‘S OXEN.
Oh, and that there fella up in the thumbnail? That’s the feral, fearsome Baloo.